


The Origin of the Phoenix

by cendri (crankyoldman), venefica_aura (crankyoldman)



Series: Psychobabble [2]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-28
Updated: 2009-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crankyoldman/pseuds/cendri, https://archiveofourown.org/users/crankyoldman/pseuds/venefica_aura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War does strange things to people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Origin of the Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during the First Wutai War, which came before the one that happens with Sephiroth and all that. Because I like to parody our world sometimes. XD Besides, I was under the impression Wutai and Shinra had to fight a couple times. Don't take this for canon fact, I play fast and loose.

They regarded him with suspicion. No one knew how old he was, except for young, but they all knew he was _not one of them_. For this reason, Hwang would not repeat his instructions if the Stranger did not hear them. For this reason, he slept in a tent farther from the rest. For this reason, Hwang kept a knife under his pillow.

No one disliked the Stranger, but no one trusted him. It is said that a man fighting for the honor of his family is noble. It is said that a man fighting for his home gains a strength that invaders and conquerers will never have.

There is nothing said about a boy fighting for a home that is not his.

—

“More water here, boy!”

Today they were by a river. The Stranger had been filling their flasks and canteens dutifully. They wouldn’t let him near any swords or firearms–even a staff was denied him. Hwang knew they would eventually give him something, but he still had to prove himself.

There was something dangerous hidden in his obedience, for it was done more out of pride than humility. The Stranger did not fetch water and bow at insults because he thought he was lowly. He was waiting. Hwang found himself liking a pride like that, because pride in glorious things is so much easier than for perseverence.

Still.

They were warming to him though. People with quiet ways were always easier to get along with than those that barked like dogs. Hwang had enough of those. To think that farmers and house servants were supposed to be meek–his band seemed to be bloated with ego.

“That’s enough. He has other chores to do. You should be practicing, anyway.”

—

The trees were thicker in the south and the soil was more rocky. They could see the fires of the Shinra army now in the valley below. Hwang knew that this band was one that was likely going to die, and their heroism was only meant to end in annihilation. They were not samurai or shinobi.

The camp was quiet, even the loudest of them held his tongue. He knew that no one was asleep–all but he pretended to be, though.

Well, almost all. “You call yourself Kyoshi? It is fitting.”

Hwang had never been a real soldier, but he believed strongly in the conviction of a man defending his home. His fields had been the first burned, and his survival had brought him north where they were organizing “troops”. But he didn’t like that word. It reminded him too much of the lines of invaders. He and his band would strike from the trees and from the earth. They would not use fire like the Shinra did.

“I didn’t pick it out.”

Two nights ago he had seen the Stranger practicing with a shovel that had been given to him to dig traps. Only when the others were asleep, and so quiet it was almost unnatural. This boy was not a natural fighter. He willed himself to be.

“But you kept it, and discarded the name your father gave you.”

“Yes.”

Hwang supposed it was the curiosity of a man that knew he was going to die that fueled his questions. “Why do you fight for a land that isn’t yours, Stranger?”

For the first time, the boy came and sat near enough to him that he could see his expressions. He always kept a respectful distance.

“Because I like it.”

Hwang shook his head. “And?”

“…And she says her garden does better out here. The weather is favorable near the coast.”

He nodded. It was time to sharpen his blade.

“I think it would be good for you to live, Kyoshi. Keep your eyes open, and wait for the opportunity.” He wasn’t sure why he thought that. It was an unusual thought to have.

—

They had vision that could pierce through the trees.

Hwang didn’t want to think that they would lose the war. Just the battle. If enough simple and hardy men died, maybe the war would be won. But he doubted it. They had more than the blessing of the gods–they too could summon them. Only the most skilled shinobi were allowed the honor of the orbs, but all the Shinra had them.

Here he’d been taught that they were a precious gift.

Maybe the boy had listened to him, or maybe there was something they had underestimated in him–but he was still alive. Hwang was the last of the band that was truly _Wutai._ The Shinra had attacked from a distance–just now was he starting to see their faces.

Or what should have been their faces. The masks of machines obscured their visage.

Kyoshi was holding a gun that was much too big for him–the man that had owned it was a blacksmith. He’d misfired it once, and his leg was bleeding freely due to it. He tried not to look scared, but even the old men in his band had been. The boy had a kind of focus that kept the shaking to his hands alone.

Oh, the faces of machines.

One foolish man without any land and a boy that didn’t belong here wouldn’t be treated well as captives. There had been talk that they did _unnatural_ things to those that didn’t have the honor of dying.

Hwang wasn’t far from the boy. If… the invaders would be confused by Kyoshi’s appearance. It was the boy’s choice to survive.

“What is the name of your father?” he asked, his farmer’s hand clamped securely around the barrel of the blacksmith’s gun. Wutai was not a backwards nation not to adopt such a weapon. It was a strange thing to be thinking.

The boy’s eyes were wide. “W-what?”

Hwang guided it to his chest. The boy wasn’t skilled enough for him to risk the head. The shot would be powerful enough here. “You have to remember the name of your father.”

It was Kyoshi’s finger on the trigger. He had a choice, but he knew he would make the right one. The honorable one.

—

“Well, looks like we got them Wutes good. I ain’t seen a single one up an’ about or spoutin’ their gibberish.”

_What is my father’s name?_

“She-et. Would you look at that one? Chest blasted right open.”

_Mom never liked that name. Didn’t want her sons having rough names._

“Now that’s a close range shot. We got some friendlies up here?”

_There’s too much metal… I can taste it and feel it. I want to go back to the coast. I can’t smell the salt anymore. Too much metal._

“Not that I heard. Maybe there’s one o’ them agents er somethin’.”

_Why am I here? Why does everything feel so heavy? I hate the way they speak, it’s rough._

“Hey, this one’s breathin’, better–”

“–Wait. He don’t look too Wute.”

_Ignorant. Who are they talking about… is it me? My leg feels like metal. Too cold._

“Guess not. Boy? You alright there? Can ya blink?”

“He’s wearin’ their clothes.”

“She-et. They pick ‘em young now. Boy? Say somethin’. Yer with the good guys now.”

_I’m with the good guys now._

“Well remember’n basic what they said about shock er somethin’…”

_Verdot._

“Wave yer hand then. Maybe that’ll bring ‘im back.”

_She wanted to name me that, instead. Oh mom…_

“….Verdot.” _No, it doesn’t sound like that. Stop speaking in the beautiful tongue._

“Veld? Gorram boy speaks with that Wute muddle.”

“Maybe that’s ‘is name. Remember Smitty?”

“Yeah. Boy, we’re getting some o’ that nice green ta fix ya up.”

_I’m with the good guys now._

—

Here in the tents where the men took off their machine masks, he learned what it was to forget. That for the sake of living, he learned to forget. In the tents, they put him in industrial fibers and heavy boots. They didn’t ask for the name of his father.

They asked for his.

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t have memories, only fragment phantoms of things that must have happened–people didn’t wake up as teenagers. People didn’t spring from the heads of gods wearing armor. That was the myth of a language that hadn’t fully formed on his tongue. His accents were skewed and rang hollow next to the discarded face plates.

“My… full name?” He translated fast in his head, but the words felt stilted. He remembered a field that stank of hay, and an old man drawing ink into picture-words.

_We chose our agent of luck to be something that could destroy us–what gives can take away._

“Don’t have all day. I don’t know which outfit put you out here, but you have to wake up sometime.” The man under this mask was impatient and demanding. He had to wake up.

“Verdot…. Drago-on.”

“Veld DragOON?”

The hell with trying to get them to pronounce it right. He could have picked something easier to latch onto–because that _wasn’t_ his name, he had not learned to forget words like those–but things were still cold and hazy and maybe a little red.

“Yes. Veld Dragoon.”

“They’ve had you undercover for a while, haven’t they? Can barely understand a lick of your Midgarian.”

He almost laughed, for some reason.

—

It was when he picked up the language, really got his tongue around the harsh consonants that he finally felt like he belonged there. These _infantrymen_ had their divisions and squabbles, but there was nothing more unifying than a common enemy. They taught him to fight.

The enemy looked like dolls from the view of a rifle sight. He didn’t feel the same kind of fearful hatred that some of the others did. There were merchant sons that had joined because their business had lost in competition with the “cheap-ass manufacturing Wutes” and other things. Then there were those that had a birthright kind of gleam in their eyes.

He generally stayed away from those.

Maybe he–Veld, which he’d been told was less “foofy” than Verdot anyway–was starting to like how his hands were always busy and his mind was clear. They all teased him about his age, but it didn’t feel malicious. Maybe it was strange that he could shoot people, and not feel malice towards or from.

He couldn’t help but like it when they reached the sea, though.

—

“So what are you going to do after all this?”

“After what?”

“The war. Either it being over or you served your time.”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“It’s all that I can remember.”


End file.
